Barrett entered the library in front of his mother and Quinn, his arrival coinciding with the exact moment Charles Cross, Esquire, moved his body and his coffee cup to the head of the long study table in the library. Barrett didn’t bother hiding his smirk. There was never a chair at the head of the table. The man had moved that, as well. In the process, he had completely nullified whatever psychological bargaining power he had hoped to achieve.

The smirk shifted to a thin, neutral line. This meeting was supposed to be about getting to the root of what Jester Carey wanted in terms of his land—hopefully with a resolution that best benefitted Quinn. But, if the meeting went south, Barrett had already decided he would find another way to help the young woman, preferably in a way that would keep her in Montana and not heading back to California.

“Here, Mama,” he said, holding out a chair for her.

Barrett had already convinced Quinn to let Lindy sit in on the meeting. As a lifelong friend of Jester’s, she could speak as to his probable wishes in altering the terms of his will. She was also the majority shareholder of both the family’s cattle and timber operations. If she only wanted the family business to work with other businesses that didn’t use Cross as their attorney, the man would be down to defending parking tickets tourists picked up on their way to the nearby national parks.

Leading Quinn around to the other side of the table, he sat her opposite his mother then took the seat next to her, his location furthest from Cross. Turning sideways in his chair, he rested one thick forearm on the table and the other along the back of Quinn’s chair, his fingers lightly touching her shoulder for support.

Seeing everyone settled, Cross launched the first attack.

“Now, I contacted the Trust Lands Management offices this morning. There is little to no give on their side.”

“Whom did you contact?” Lindy asked, a brow raised as her gaze wandered from the man’s face to his wrinkled business jacket and back up.

“Hank Dupree—”

She cut him off with a snort followed by a flick of her finger granting him permission to continue talking.

Barrett hid his smile. Hank Dupree and Jester had locked horns a hundred times or more, Jester winning a good eighty percent of the time. More importantly, Hank was in Minerals Management for the Trust Division—and, even there, he wasn’t top dog. Barrett didn’t know which was the bigger problem: Cross knowing or not knowing he wasn’t talking to the right person at the Trust Division.

“Based on my conversation with Mr. Dupree,” the attorney continued. “Miss Whitaker must remain overnight for each of the ninety days.”

“Now, Jester wrote that provision into his will when his cabin was still standing,” Barrett objected.

In replying, Cross looked at Quinn and ignored Barrett.

“Miss Whitaker, anyone who has been to that cabin knows it was hardly any kind of shelter. The plumbing was only for the sink and tub. Hot water was from a pot on a stove. He used an outside facility for…other plumbing needs. That ‘facility’ was nothing more than a hole in the ground with a narrow shack and a bench to sit on.”

“A cabin with a wood stove is no small difference between a tent come winter,” Barrett growled, his hand curling a little tighter around Quinn’s shoulder as he thought of how the last third of her ninety days would fall in November.

“Tell that to the Cheyenne and the Kootenai,” Cross countered.

He waved his hand in the air like everything he had just said was mere errata.

“The point being, not fulfilling the demands of the will with the hope of successfully challenging it could be deemed a failure to perform. You wouldn’t get a do-over, Miss Whitaker. Even if you did, you’d be well into winter and still wouldn’t have a cabin. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Barrett wanted to reach down the table and shake the man’s arrogant tone straight out of him. Instead he took a deep breath and practiced holding it.

“The only thing open to negotiation,” Cross continued. “Is how we determine that Miss Whitaker is there overnight until the cell tower is back up. The funds Mr. Carey provided for administration of his estate will not cover in-person visits even a few times a week for ninety days, let alone twice a day. Now, if you have funds, Miss Whitaker, for me to contract a service?”

Even before Quinn scratched out a “no,” Barrett felt her stiffen and knew what her answer would be. Heck, he’d known from the tears she had cried sitting out on her tailgate after midnight that her resources were stretched thin or non-existent.

“Does it have to be some service?” Lindy asked. “Could someone take it upon themselves to check twice a day and provide an affidavit under penalty of perjury that they witnessed Quinn there at the appointed times?”

“I’d have to clear it with the probate judge, same for missing this morning’s check in.”

Seeing the slow shake of Quinn’s head, Barrett wanted to turn the woman in her seat and kiss her worries away. She was probably thinking she didn’t know anyone who was just going to show up for free two times a day, ninety days straight.

“That’s fine,” Barrett said before Quinn could throw in the towel. “When you talk to the judge, tell him I will be there at those times barring jump duty. My brother Sutton will fill in during those periods. And we’ll sign whatever affidavits are needed.”

Quinn swiveled her head slowly in Barrett’s direction, her gaze wide.

Grinning, he slid her a wink. “You didn’t think I was going to leave a Hollywood girl alone in the woods, did you?”